


Safe

by Jpike768, Ryvyn



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, BDSM, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Flashbacks, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Kinbaku, M/M, Nightmares, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shibari
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 08:58:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5450915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jpike768/pseuds/Jpike768, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryvyn/pseuds/Ryvyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Editing is ongoing for this story as well.  The first chapter is written from the perspective of Keith one of the main characters.  The chapters will alternate between the perspective of Keith and his husband Rowan.  I try to portray a realistic yet healthy BDSM dynamic in my work although as the story goes on the flaws in their relationship should become apparent.  Keith has PTSD and deals with rampant homophobia in the south so if you can think of a trigger involving those things assume it will be in here.  Enjoy...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Safe

 

Safe Part 1: Keith

 

It has been a long, arduous, beautiful day in North Carolina. I had gone to the bank in Raleigh to deposit our checks and make the mortgage payment, stopped by the adoption agency to fill out some paperwork, dropped off lunch for my husband Rowan and gone shopping for the next two weeks groceries by two o'clock. All my energy is about spent and I still have dinner to make, laundry to do and the living room is in desperate need of vacuuming, but with any luck hubby will be in a good mood and we can both get lucky tonight.

 

Exhausted, I turn the key in the lock making my way inside. I hold the screen door open with my foot and wiggle my way inside with my arms full of groceries. It should have been an easy day of running errands, but the problem with PTSD, according to my therapist, is that even seemingly minor things can trigger flashbacks. She isn't wrong. I can hear my blood spattering on the ground whenever echoes of my past reverberate off the walls of my small world. 

 

When I smelled the bud light and aggression coming off the Camaro with the Greek letters, I knew my day was going to be hell. In line at the Kroger, some douchey-looking frat brothers with identical stupid gelled haircuts had gotten into it about which of them was gayer. Normally, I don't let things like that get to me, but the situation had escalated fairly quickly.

 

"...yeah bro? Well, my girl says your girl told her you read Twilight and liked it, Fag," chortled the frat boy with the tribal tattoo of barbed wire on his bicep.

 

"Bitches love Twilight, brah! Besides, what's with you getting a boner during 21 Jumpstreet and Magic Mike? Maybe you want some of that _Tatum_ licking your _taint-um_..." the one with Japanese kanji (for what I assume to be 'fucktard') on the back of his neck retorted sardonically.

 

"Fuck you, you're still a bigger pussy, faggot..." The irritated barbed wire tool-bag clenched his jaw, looking ready to swing off.

 

"Ah, shit, it's true..." Scornful laughter began erupting from the second boy before he was cut off by the fist slamming into his mouth.

 

Ironic Kanji fell backward into my shopping cart. It was none of my business but my first instinct was to make sure he was alright and try to help. I reached down, offering my hand, and the boy slapped it away vehemently, shouting, "Stay out of it, queer."

 

The manager arrived at that moment and demanded the two of them leave. The argument lasted several minutes until there was talk of the police being called.

 

Still shaken, I began to interrogate myself. How did he know? Was it something I said? The way I had said it? Was it in my voice or the way I dressed and carried myself? What if he had realized I am actually gay; would he and his friend have turned on me too?

 

I remember the feeling of my face against gravel and the hammering blows of several boots slamming into my ribs, over and over again, in time with the malicious shouts of "fag...FAG...FUCKING FAGGOT...!"

 

"Sir?" asked the grocer politely as I snapped back to reality. "Sorry about that, sir, but we need to get the line moving again..."

 

"Oh, yes, of course, so sorry." Embarrassed, I put the groceries on the belt while trying not to shake.

 

The lady ringing me up seemed friendly enough. Something like pity was in her eyes as she wisely didn't say anything except to tell me my total. I paid and then hurried home, feeling a mix of shame and anger swell in the pit of my stomach.

God, I had felt like such a coward, too scared to even stand up for myself. Though as I rode home I gave myself comfort, thinking that it had happened too quickly. Both of the dumb shits had been practically raging already and there was no point in shifting their testosterone-fueled homophobia and malcontent towards me. After all, if Rowan found out they had hurt me, he'd probably ride up to the college and kick every dude and Broheim's ass until he was sure he got the right ones. The thought made me smile and the knot in my stomach changed to warmth as I pulled into the driveway.

 

* * *

 

I feel better but the stress from the flashback is still sitting somewhere in my upper back. Walking into our two-story town-home makes me feel safe. I feel my worries gradually evaporate as I unload the groceries and begin putting them in their respective places.

 

Finished with the groceries, I straighten up the living room and begin to clean the carpet, getting lost in the steady hum of the vacuum. Our entertainment center is far too big to move, boasting a 65 inch flat-screen and several of Rowan's video game systems. I steer clear of the aggravatingly tangled mess of cords that plague electronics while quickly vacuuming the living room and dining area. After pulling the chairs down from atop the table, I start in on the hallway to the front door before moving the couch. Best for last, I always say. Several lighters and a good deal of change are hiding under the large leather treasure chest. I put the lighters on the side table and the change in a container.

 

The chore has only taken about ten minutes. I put the vacuum away and start up the stairs to the laundry room, shoulders slumping all the way to the top; stress knots forming along my spine jarring painfully with every step.

 

Rowan had done the wash before he left for work. All I need to do is put the load in the dryer. Once the task is complete, I stand up from the dryer, stretching my arms above my head to try and work out the knots, and stifle a huge yawn. Checking the clock, I notice the time is pushing 5. Rowan would be home in an hour. I need to start cooking or he'll have to wait to eat.

 

He's a good man; I know he'll be sensitive if I unload what had happened today, but I need to leave it at the door. Relationships shouldn't have to be about trying to fix each other's problems all the time. I quickly jump in the shower and rinse off. There will be time later for a real shower, but southern weather is terribly humid in the summer and I don't want to be cooking while feeling like a greased-up pig. I put on some clean jeans and a button up before hurrying downstairs.

 

Pushing all the stress from my mind, I start the meal prep. Tonight I would be in a rush, but I always make jambalaya, Rowan's favorite, from scratch. I chop the meat, set aside the rice, get the bell peppers ready and the stove heated up. The work keeps my mind busy and my emotions muted. I'm in the zone and the meal only needs about ten more minutes to be ready when I hear Rowan come in through the front door.

 

Shit, he's earlier than I expected. My magical cooking trance is broken; the stress of the day comes rushing back and I choke back big, ugly sobs. Tears run down my cheeks and sizzle on the stove top as they fall. I fight against the tremors shaking my body and refrain from whimpering like some kind of lost puppy. It upsets me that he is going to see me cry like this, but the thought of hiding from him only makes it worse.

 

"Keith, I'm home," he shouts, whistling merrily as he hangs his coat up. "How was your-" He stops short as he walks towards the kitchen and sees how distraught I am.

 

"Dinner's almost ready," I say, my voice cracking.

 

Leaning forward with one hand gripping the counter top for support, I hurriedly wipe the tears from my eyes and feel his strong arms wrap around my waist. He nestles his chin into my shoulder, his short, well-trimmed beard scratching against my neck. We entwine our fingers and I rest my temples against his, feeling myself steadily become more relaxed as I hiccup the final few tears.

 

At first I feel resigned to let him hold me, but as his body absorbs the pain, my mind turns to other thoughts. I realize that I need to feel his energy tangling with mine. The urge to be with him builds inside of me until I feel a calm as deep as my breathing wash over me. My eyes still glistening, I turn my head and reach my mouth towards my rock, brushing my lips gently against his with tears still on my cheeks.

 

To his credit, he doesn't pull away from my tear-streaked face. Instead, he leans me gently against the counter-top and kisses me deeply. I can feel his body eagerly pressing into mine as our lips find a rhythm. We start off with a soft passion that slowly begins to build like a flood behind a dam, cracking at its foundation. The river of anxiety raging inside me fuels my lust and makes me ache for release.

 

The hands that were around my waist begin searching for bare skin and find it, one running its finger tips across my rib cage while the other cups the left side of my face. My hands are pinned between his barrel chest and my body; they grip his shirt as the stress melts away and is replaced by arousal. Knowing what I'm asking for, I free my left hand and run it provocatively down the front of his body, around his hips and towards his ass and grip firmly. I feel the muscles ripple beneath his jeans as he begins grinding his pelvis into mine.

 

My body begins to twitch beneath his every touch as if filled with electricity, responding to his hand caressing my lower back and pulling. I arch against him as he unhooks my belt and the kissing intensifies and he begins to unzip my pants and the cries of the timer on the stove beg us for attention, snapping us out of our need for each other. The wailing of the stove threatens a burned dinner if I don't take care of it immediately. It’s a rather sudden splash of cold water on an otherwise hot make out session with my dream man. I smile and put my arms around his neck, giving him one more kiss. Then a few more for good measure.

 

"Thank you. I needed that," I say breathlessly, wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my face against his chest.

 

"You're welcome. Would you like to talk about what happened?" he asks soothingly.

 

"The kiss?" I say, confused.

 

"No, I meant what had you so upset." Worry lines his face as he says it.

 

"Oh. That." I grumble, pretending to be miffed as if he spoiled my mood, but I can't keep a straight face. The result may have been what could be described as a cute grumpy face. The kind a five year old boy gets when asked if he has a girlfriend. I glare at him as he smirks and tries not to laugh at me. "Maybe over dinner." I turn back to turn off the stove and start preparing plates.

 

He usually doesn't bother to try and help since I won't let him, but tonight he decides to put his foot down and help me set the table. We begin eating with our ritual of comfortable banter. He talks about work and I make fun of his stupid coworkers, which makes him laugh. I tell him that I managed to get everything taken care of at the bank and he thanks me. The conversation carries on like this for about five minutes before he inevitably regards me with an expectant gaze. The look he gives me says "come on, honey, tell me everything so I can love you better." It's so sweet, I may be at risk for diabetes if I don't divorce him soon.

 

Sighing, I tell him everything that had happened at the Kroger. I see a brief flash of anger in his eyes when he hears about the frat boy calling me a queer. His look softens when I begin to tell him about the flashback to when I was eight and the boy I had been in love with, my best friend, had gotten the other children to beat me. I nearly died that day with three broken ribs and a shattered elbow and I had been left in the clearing where my father had found me. I still blame myself as my dad had blamed me for telling Jonathan that I wanted to be his boyfriend.

 

 _"Son..."_ he started on the long trip back to the hospital, _"those kids are assholes and I will be ripping their parents a new one, but you can't be forcing what you are on people like that. They just don't know how to handle it."_

 

His words had hurt so much at the time. I couldn't understand why their feelings were more important than mine. But he was my daddy and I trusted him. I still do, now that I'm older, but I realize he isn't always the brightest, most invincible person I thought he was. My father had thought I was too weak to be who I was and wanted me to be more cautious.

 

'Worry wart,' my mom had called him before she died when I was 6.

 

Rowan had hated my father for the longest time before he met him because of that story. However, in the 20 years since that moment, my dad had grown from an insensitive jerk of a single dad to one of our biggest supporters. Oh yes, they butt heads all the time, but they'll still have a beer and watch football. According to my father (and I'm paraphrasing), football is the sportsiest sport in all of sportsdom (or something like that). I just take his word for it.

 

"Hey, thanks for talking to me," Rowan remarks seriously after a few moments of my silence. His words bring me back from my memories. A gentle smile lights his eyes. "I know it can be hard to trust, so thank you."

 

"You're welcome. And thanks for hearing me. I know it's hard not always being able to fix me," I say sadly.

 

"Oh, stop it. I'd never want to change you." Frustrated that the conversation has taken a morose turn, he finishes off his drink before asking, "Do you want to do a bondage scene tonight?"

 

That puts a shy little grin on my face and I feel my cheeks burning as I'm simultaneously aroused and the butterflies fill my stomach. "I think I'd like that." Listen to me, trying not to sound to eager.

 

After dinner we do the dishes and watch some anime. Honestly, I don't understand half of it, but I enjoy spending time with Rowan and cuddling on the couch enough not to worry about what we're watching.

 

Tonight my head is on a pillow in his lap. Every once in a while during the show, he'll rub my back for a few minutes, sending sensual vibrations down my spine. I want to go upstairs now and get all this energy out of me. The jerk loves to tease me till I can't stand it. A few minutes into the next episode he yawns, saying, "I think we need to start winding down".

 

Disappointed that he has seemingly forgotten we are supposed to play tonight, I only reply with an "Ok. I'm gonna get a shower."

 

Upstairs, I undress before getting into the shower and letting the cold water rain over my body. I don't like the water icy, just enough to give me goose bumps and clear my head. I clean myself quickly. Years of not being welcome in locker rooms had taught me to bathe quickly. It helped us save on water bills (always a silver lining). Refreshed, I get out and dry myself, wrapping the towel around my waist. My sleeping clothes would still be laid out at the end of our queen sized bed. I had hoped Rowan would not forget about tonight, but I lay my disappointment to rest, realizing that he was most likely taxed from a hard day of work and having to comfort me as soon as he walked in the door.

 

My eyes widen as I walk out into the bedroom and see Rowan leaning against the end of our bed frame, completely naked and looking like a Greek god. I feel my jaw drop and feel light headed as I drink him in. The body builders in magazines maintain a gross amount of mass in their muscles, but not Rowan; his body is perfect.

 

Broad shoulders at the top of his V-shaped figure show the edges of tattoos that spread around and across his upper back, accenting the dimples in his musculature. Across them he had slung the rope he would be using tonight. His gorgeous cock is already hard. Just like his body, it is clean, symmetrical, and proportioned. 

 

I force back an excited squeal threatening to undermine my thin veneer of masculinity. My heart begins to race as I bite my lip and wait as patiently as I can, occasionally licking at the saliva gathering in the corners of my mouth. His finger points at me and makes the "come here" motion. Letting my towel drop to the floor, I try to move as gracefully and confidently as I can towards him. No matter how many times we do this, I always forget how hot he is. He stands completely self-assured and admires my form, I relax and open up to him, preparing to let his energy meld with mine.

 

He places the rope down on the bed before standing straight and putting my head in his hands. His intense gaze meets mine and my lips tremble in anticipation. He traces them with his thumb and steps in closer to me. Noticing the way his cock twitches when it touches my skin, I eagerly attempt to lean my head in for a kiss, and he pulls me back by my hair, stopping me dead. My heart practically palpating now, he commands me, "be still." He holds me there till I stop shaking, our gaze never falters.

 

Then suddenly, I am melting beneath the weight of his kiss. My legs begin to shake. I feel the fire pouring down my throat and into the bottom of my stomach. He breaks the kiss, leaving me panting for more. Still grabbing me by the back of the head, he pulls me straight down to my knees in front of him. My mouth opens slightly, anticipating his cock inside of it. Looking me in the eyes, he rubs his glans across my lips and I bring my tongue out to lick just beneath the end of the shaft. Grunting with pleasure, he releases me and positions himself.

 

I wrap my lips around the tip of his cock and slowly slide it in as far as my gag reflex will let me. The feeling of my mouth being filled with his manhood excites me; his skin engages all of my taste buds as his cock slides back and forth across my tongue and my body begins to loosen. A feeling begins to rise in my stomach, a craving, causing me to tense for a moment as I greedily try to satisfy the urge.

 

I hold the base firmly and begin to run my tongue along the sides, making sure to give every inch the attention it deserves. Turned on by the sight of it continuing to harden, I relax my throat, mouth dripping with saliva, and go down on him again. Reaching down with my left hand to stroke my own timid and slightly twitching erection, I feel it begin to harden more aggressively. It will be a while before I am allowed to come, but I want him to see how much I am enjoying myself. I trace the lines of his hard muscles while I take the time to give his balls more attention; I know it tickles, but feels amazing and I want to do a good job for him.

 

The craving is back and I know exactly what I need. Impatiently, I use both of my hands to pull his hips into me, wanting more and more of him inside me. I grab the base of his piece in my right hand to hold it steady while I ease it farther into the back my throat, giving special care to not grip too tight, I slowly lick the sensitive area under the glans every time I bring my head back. The pre-cum tastes lovely and I can't help but to look up into his eyes as I set about my work fervently. The look on his face excites me all the more, a mix of ecstasy and cruel desire. Butterflies are in my stomach as I realize just how much he wants to fuck me; he's holding in his lust, letting it build and intensify. It won't be long now.

 

My hands fall from his hips as he goes to the bed and leans back. Crawling towards him, mouth watering, I resign myself to wait patiently until he is ready. When he beckons me, I slide my hands up his inner thighs and trace the lines of his V-muscle before resting my arms on either side of his legs. The feeling of the powerful muscles against my skin has me thinking about the strength and feeling of his thrusts inside me and my ass begins to clench in anticipation of the punishment that would eventually be wrought on it. The thought fills me with renewed energy as I slowly begin my work again.

 

Now that I have his penis at eye level once more, my mouth begins to water and I go down on it hungrily, slowly at first, then faster as my throat becomes used to being occupied. It chokes me at first and I can almost sense him smiling down at me. I resist the urge to look up and flatter myself with his pleasure; I have to earn that. Letting me have this little bit of control, he rests his hand on the back of my neck to pull my hair and head back and refrains from thrusting forward and hurting me. At this point I wouldn't mind if he decided to be a little rougher (if I didn't know how badly it would make me gag).

 

More pre-cum trails off my lips as I come up for air. He grabs me by the throat now and runs his other hand across my face, stroking my hair as my moans begin to turn into a low growling. My eyes half shut in ecstasy, I stroke my own cock, which has become more sensitive from lack of oxygen. His grip is firm and restrictive, but not overly painful; my throat relaxes and my head floods with a deep sense of calm. My body loosens as I feel it slowly submitting to his power. Placing his fingers to the side of my neck with his thumb across my larynx and guiding my head with the other hand he tells me to begin again. I can feel the slight grind in his hips as his thighs wiggle against my chest and I know that he will come soon. Continuing with a steady motion and lightly tapping his thigh when I need air, I float in the sea of tranquility that has washed over me.

 

It comes as a surprise when his hot cum explodes in my mouth. I religiously begin swallowing every ounce of it, not wanting to waste a drop. From the base to half-way up, I even squeeze slightly as I would an almost-empty tube of toothpaste to get all of it out, then lick the tip clean.

 

When he is done, he motions for me to get up on the bed. I assume a kneeling position in the center and face away from him, excited for what I think is next. I feel the touch of his skin against my back and shiver, his hands deftly secure my wrists with his rope and I feel my erection begin to harden in earnest. The rope hugs my body as he manipulates my arms, only biting enough to arouse me, and I feel the brush of his lips as he begins to kiss the nape of my neck. Leaning back into the peace that comes with his ownership, I allow him to manipulate my body as he needs to. He pulls my head back while placing the tension across my chest and ties off the harness before stopping to admire his work.

 

The intensity of my pleasure at feeling the firm grip wrap around my jaw makes my eyes water, it's almost too much to bear. When I think it can't get better, his hands start to caress the all the secret sensitivities of my body and I make the conscious effort not to writhe when he runs his nails over them. My mind is a madhouse of endorphins that wash away all my conscious thoughts.

 

When he is finally done teasing me, he ties my legs to the bed frame, pulling them as far up as I am able to go without hurting so that my ass is more easily accessible. The rope clamps into my ankles and I stifle a groan of pain as the tightness in my hamstrings intensifies; it eases once I manage to relax. He looks at me like he's only casually interested in my comfort, and sees from my face that I am so close to coming. My ass is clenching of its own accord, a hungry little thing anticipating the pleasure and pain it is about to endure.

 

Taking his time, what feels like an eternity in which I am silently begging, he begins applying a liberal amount of lube. Watching him put it on himself is enough to get me erect again and build upon the craving, the need to cum, that had filled my body. He has trouble getting it inside at first, my body is so tense from waiting, but I manage to relax enough. He begins to take me slowly at first, giving me a chance to adjust, before increasing speed. The sensation of gentle strokes against my cock has me gasping and fighting not to scream in pleasure. His wild thrusting into the tightness of my ass are drowned by the pressure against my prostate and the sensation of his warm skin connecting with mine. I can feel my pre-cum fly off the tip of my penis to spatter across my torso. Nothing feels real except him; everything is blurred through my half-shut eyes and no thoughts dare to disturb me in my moments of ecstasy.

 

My orgasm doesn't stop for what feels like a full minute and my legs cramp, causing me to whimper. I can feel my own cum, warm against my chest. My ass is clenching tightly to his cock as he holds himself inside of me and I know he is finishing as well. A pleased expression glows in his eyes as he unties me and caresses my ravaged body. Pink scratch marks cover me from neck to waist where he had chosen to mark me during our love making; I had not even noticed, lost as I was.

 

He wraps me up in his arms and whispers soothing words as I let my self slowly come out of sub-space and try to doze off. I turn to face him, running my fingers along his rib-cage, and I allow my eyes to take in the sight of his naturally tanned body. My body relaxes to the melody of his touch and I do the same for him, at times orchestrating my hands across his back, at others gently teething his nipple. When I am too exhausted to continue, he tucks me in with my favorite quilt. The one with the pattern of dancing swans. I request permission to sleep in his arms. When it is given, I lay my head against his chest and doze off to the sound of Rowan's voice singing an old Irish lullaby.

 

* * *

 

 

 

My therapist has been making me keep a dream journal. It was difficult at first, but I've started being able to remember my dreams with less difficulty for better or for worse. Tonight is a fresh hell. Rowan and I are sitting at the adoption agency with a ticket number waiting for the little red sign to flash 66. We've been trying for years and we're still unsure how well the process will go in the bible belt, but recently some state senator or another had pushed a bill through preventing discrimination. Still we were both fairly nervous. A part of our lives feels like a tinderbox; at any moment it could collapse and burn around us forcing us to turn around and walk away leaving us to slowly rebuild the wreckage. Rowan stays stoic as we wait except for the way his mouth twitches when his mind is racing. His hand feels cool in mine and I give it what I think is a comforting squeeze.

 

Suddenly hundreds of television appear on the walls as the waiting room stretches to the length of a football field. They flash on and our seats swing around and across the room separating us by nearly 40 yards. I call out to Rowan as I try to get up, but find myself in a straight jacket and strapped to the chair. I look on in horror as I realize what's on the televisions. Every gods damned hateful moment of my life flashes before my eyes. In front of me is the humiliation of my small town recruiter telling me in front of the other poolies that I was ineligible to serve because he "knew for a fact I had seen one up close"; the laughter of the meatheads who weren't smart enough to get into college and the pitying gaze of some of my more evolved peers who knew they could do nothing cause my eyes to burn in shame all over again. To the right was my childhood friend Jonathan spitting on my small broken body pissing in my face and kicking dirt into my eyes before leaving me for dead. I remember the way my body shivered as the sun began to fall in the sky and the pain pervaded my mind till I was sure I would black out. Above me all the stupid young women who wanted my fashion advice and tried to turn me into their dancing pet monkey complete with accessorizing tips chat vapidly, their subtle prejudice and idiocy grinding into me like nails on a chalkboard. To my left each with their own televisions are the 4 religious leaders that had refused to marry Rowan and I; their impassioned insistence that we had been trying to discriminate against them for wanting a beautiful wedding still brings the acrid taste of bile to the back of my throat.

 

I begin to scream, my hate and rage amplified by the acoustics, cursing every last one of them with all the hexes I knew. I prayed to my gods and goddesses to see and judge every last one of the motherfuckers. Then I looked to see Rowan, paralyzed and pale beneath the light of his televisions; I watch in horror as his demons materialize out of the walls. First his father, foaming at the mouth, carrying a thick studied belt in one hand and a bible in the other prepared to beat the sickness out of him approaches from the side. Out of another steps a woman, his mother, looking worn and ragged, who cries while refusing to look at him as another man with electrodes slung over his shoulders straps Rowan's head to the chair. I wail in agony watching him strain against the straps pinning him to the chair as the doctor positions the electrodes against his temples. My husband and I scream impotently to stop the madness and I hear the strongest man I know begin sobbing as the doctor begins the electro-convulsive therapy...

 

I wake up still screaming and sobbing to Rowan gently shushing me. He knows better than to touch me during a nightmare, but when he sees me wake he immediately begins to hold and soothe me. Whispering and singing my favorite songs while I cry into my chest. The agreement is he won't ask questions as long as I allow him to read my dream journal when this happens; I won't have to relive it right away. Holding him for dear life I stutter and choke trying to explain until he shushes me and holds me as close and tightly as he can without hurting me. After I have calmed down a bit I extricate myself gently from his arms and go to wash my face into the bathroom.

 

The icy water is a shock to my system and I briskly wipe it from my face and beard with a towel. I take a moment to look at myself in the mirror. My eyes are red from crying. I rub them with my fingers before looking at them again in the mirror. It soothes me to concentrate on my breathing and analyze my features; my ritual for coming down off the adrenaline has been perfected over the years. I look into my own eyes which are primarily blue and count the flecks of green surrounding the amber edges. When I finish I practice smiling and making facial expression; my frown lines are as prominent as the creases I have from smiling. Many of the straight black hairs on my face aare noticeably longer than the others, the beard is getting a little scraggly and needs to be trimmed. That could wait till tomorrow. I continue to breath in and out of my diaphragm even after my head is clear. I take another shower for good measure before putting on a fresh pair of pajamas. Quietly I slip back in the bed, I don't begrudge Rowan going back to sleep; to him this is old hat and he needs his rest for work. It takes me hours to get back to sleep. My mind races as I remember the dream; I quickly scrawl the major details into my journal beneath my small book-light so that I wouldn't forget by morning. Worrisome thoughts plague me. How long would it take for the new adoption laws to be overturned, am I too damaged to be a good father; I don't want my child growing up like I did. I want my child to be empathetic and care about others, but how could I teach him when I am still so full of anger. I can't fuck this up I muse to myself. My next therapy session would be tomorrow; I make a mental note to bring up tonight.

 

Its late when I wake up, the clock reads 10:05. There is a note next to it from Rowan:

 

Keith,

 

I feel like you deserve your rest after last night, so I set the alarm for 45 minutes before your appointment. Don't worry about taking care of anything, just take some time for yourself and recharge. I'll take you out to eat tonight, so don't start dinner.

 

XOXO,

 

Rowan

 

I turn off the alarm set for 10:15 and begin my morning ritual. First I use the toilet, then 50 pushups, I brush my teeth next, followed by 40 pushups, floss quickly, 30 pushups, and a cold shower last. I'll never be as fit as Rowan, but I try to stay somewhat in shape. I get dressed quickly and grab the essentials, keys and such, off the bedside table. As I make my way downstairs I smile to myself at how thoughtful Rowan had been lately. We have our share of fights, but it always works out. Therapy has taught me how to communicate with him and understand what is bothering me. There has been several times I thought he would leave me, but I had agreed to couples counseling after our biggest fight and outpatient therapy after my suicide attempt. I grip my keys remembering the pain of the wound that has left a scar now shining white along the length of my left forearm. Shaking my head I focus on happy thoughts. Things are going well. Rowan and I are solid, my therapy is going well and there may be a baby in our future. I walk to the car, waving to my neighbor walking her dog. Starting the car I check the time and realize I still have twenty minutes. Well it never hurts to be early.

 

The rush of traffic has died down as most people are already at work, but I get caught behind a few stragglers. Its nothing that would make me late but its still frustrating to have someone in front of you go 40 in a 45. Small towns, gotta love 'em. I pull into a parking space in front of my doctors office. I still have five minutes to check in. Doctor Salong is usually good about seeing patients right away, but only if they get checked in on time. She's alright in my book; I can respect the "if you waste my time I'll waste yours" attitude. It's really "no bullshit". The computerized check-in asks me the usual questions for verification and I take my seat in the waiting room. It only takes five minutes for me to be called back. I try not to be disappointed that I couldn't watch the rest of the episode of Bonanza I haven't seen yet; after last night wholesome t.v. programs our most welcome. The assistant asks me to stand on the scale and I cringe a little before I remember that my boots and clothes add five pounds as opposed to standing naked on my own at home. We go back into the assistants office and she takes my blood pressure, asking me the usual health related questions and filling out her forms. I give the appropriate answers and wait for my psychiatrist to come pull me out for our usual medication management talk. Usually I schedule to see my psychiatrist and psychologist on the same day; it can be exhausting, but I like getting things out of the way. When she finally takes me to her office we talk for about 15 minutes about my anxiety and decide to adjust to a slightly higher dose then I make my way back to the front room to wait for Doctor Salong. I take out my dream journal from my pocket to refresh my memory and go over the details of my day yesterday making notes of everything I think I should mention.

 

Still scribbling in my notes, I jump at the sound of my name and shuffle hurriedly towards the door to the hallway leading back to the Doctor's office. Doctor Salong is a pleasant Indian woman who always asks me how I'm doing in her soothing voice; I know its not just a pleasantry, she needs to get an idea of my mood before we begin.

 

Answering honestly I sigh "I have a lot to talk about today".

 

"Oh?" she says, her eyes furrowing into a worried frown as she guides me back to her office "Have things been hard on you in the last two months?"

 

"Not particularly, but yesterday was crappy. I had and incident at the grocery store and another nightmare last night." I reply pursing my lips into as I remember the bullshit I had dealt with the day before and wondered how I had managed to make it this far.

 

"Okay, we can talk about that" looking concerned she nods with a caring smile as she motions me to sit in her office "maybe we can make some discoveries to help you cope"

 

Her office isn't very large. Its only about 10 by 10, but its decorated to be comfortable with the usual generic couch, potted plant and desk. All the things that make the space feel neutral and safe.

 

"How about we go through your day yesterday?" She begins in her most professional tone while pulling out her pen and notepad and crossing her legs as she leans back into her chair.

 

I relay to her the all the information in as much detail as possible. At times I refer to my notes to make sure I don't miss anything important. Telling her about the grocery store and how Rowan had been there for me afterwards feels comfortable. She has been helping me for nearly a year now and I like to think we have a rapport after so long. Nodding and smiling and looking worried in all the right places she continues to scribble any notes she finds important; I had long since gotten over the paranoia of therapists writing their little notes. She listens and offers commentary while never judging; asking me to expand more on my thoughts and feelings. Its helpful to really get it out there and be able to flesh out what's going on inside. Finally I get to the dream describing to her in as much detail as I could remember at first, then I refer to my notes for the small details I have already forgotten.

 

"Rowan is not my patient so for clarification are the things you dreamed about last night based in reality at all?" She asks carefully.

 

"Yes, it's all from stories he's told me over the years." I tell her nodding my head and closing my eyes, trying to turn off the images in my mind.

 

"I know you love your husband a great deal and that you've been reporting a more communicative relationship with him. It sounds to me as if the incident at the store yesterday could have caused some subconscious insecurity; not necessarily with your relationship with Rowan, but how it could be affected by the outside world? Have you thought about that?" Holy shit, mind blown lady.

 

Eyes widening in surprise at her insight I realize what she's saying is true "That actually makes a lot of sense. I really needed him yesterday and he came through. If we weren't still together I don't know what I'd do."

 

"Do you ever worry that one of you may become unhappy with the relationship again?" Frankness, I like that.

 

"Not lately, I realize he needs me too. Just in different ways. Can we not talk about that, it upsets me too much?" I frown not wanting to remind myself that our relationship has not always been this good.

 

"Of course. Have the two of you heard anything new from the adoption agency?" She deftly circumnavigates the subject to avoid pushing and risk shutting me down.

 

Relieved, I relay the information I had learned the day before "Nothing solid yet filled out an application for an interview yesterday. I don't expect to hear anything soon."

 

"Good, hopefully you begin to see progress with that. I'm glad to see you feeling in a good enough place to take this step with your partner..." We continue talking for the rest of the hour about coping skills and expectations for upcoming changes in my life. She closes with the usual questions "Are you thinking about harming yourself or others? Do you have an emergency plan?" all her checks in the box. When we finish I thank her and schedule for next month and walk out feeling refreshed and restored. I think about what the next few weeks might bring and I find hope had somehow sneaked its way back inside me.


End file.
